


Stray Too Far From The Sidewalk

by doctor_jasley, gala_apples



Series: S. K. Anon [2]
Category: Bandom, The Cab
Genre: Alternate Universe - Serial Killers, Car Accidents, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-13
Updated: 2013-12-13
Packaged: 2018-01-04 13:43:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1081697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doctor_jasley/pseuds/doctor_jasley, https://archiveofourown.org/users/gala_apples/pseuds/gala_apples
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cash goes on a roadtrip.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stray Too Far From The Sidewalk

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from Because of You by Kelly Clarkson. Having this song come on shuffle when we were discussing Brendon/Frank/Mikey/Gerard launched the whole second side of the story, the SK Anon part. Three years later and we still can't listen to it without laughing.

It’s strange, how shit works. 

Fuckin forever ago, he was breaking into a car and this hairy fucker was doing the same, so he’d went up to him to exchange tips. Except Hairy Tattooed Fucker wasn’t going for a joyride, he was just planting a bomb so some fucking dog skin jacket fucker would be removed off the face of the Earth. It wasn’t really his scene, but they exchanged numbers anyway. Better to be forgotten misnamed numbers in a cellphone then having to kill each other to keep their secrets hush hush. 

And then, a bit after that, he was taking out some red haired Asian and this greasy bastard came up to him, all knocking on his window, saying _dude, I'm not going to rat you out, but you might want to stop for a bit. They're putting up a red light camera, too many students cutting because they're worried about being late for class. And I’m pretty sure a few are going up in the student parking lot for safety too._ And he’d clarified, _you just saw me kill someone and you don't care?_ and Greasy Bastard was all _well, we all do it sometimes, right? The pent up desire just wants out. Who am I to judge your outlet?_

He’d looked at him for a second then shrugged, agreeing that he could test out stopping, see how it went. And then he’d called up Cummy McGee, the hairy fucker, and told him he should come to their Let’s All Not Take Out Bitches meeting, and he’d showed up. There’d been two others that night, a curly haired pussy that whined about his family, and a second greasy bastard. After that they’d only grown.

And then Cummy McGee had decided to shit a goddamn brick about all the fishies in the sea dying, and all of them had woken the fuck up about what kind of person they were, and what they enjoyed doing. And now he’s got the balls to fulfill his dream, something he never would have done had he not tried to smother his true self. So really, he owes Cummy McGee and Waydog a fucking lot.

What it boils down to is a hit and run roadtrip is basically the best possible use of his time. People think that high school or college is supposed to be the best time of your life, but fuck that. Who the hell needs school? A bunch of bookworm dingleberries trying to tell you how the world works. If you really want to experience shit, you fucking do it, you don’t just talk about it. It took Pubehair fucking forever to figure that shit out and finally take out the people he hated instead of going for surrogates and jacking off to the idea. Cash doesn’t need to read Jack motherfucking Kerouc, he needs to be out there doing it.

Johnson and Marshall and Singer thought he was mental for it, but they were supportive fuckers. Got a second and third set of keys for him in case he lost them, bought an air freshener and a few bottles of Axe in case he wanted to smoke up before crossing the border. He couldn’t exactly tell them he was parking at long-term in the airport, then jacking a new car each time he took someone out. There’s a high fucking percent chance they’d rat that shit out, and it would ruin the friendships, so it’s just easier to not give his crew a chance to betray him.

The first sack of flesh he tags is hours after he starts out after a sweet -free- breakfast of jam covered toast. He wasn’t actually staying in that hotel, but no one actually notices when people stealth their way in for continental breakfast. It’s evening and she’s alone. Her hair’s long and pulled back in a way that flashes Prissy Bitch in his head. That raises her tally fifteen points. Her shoes nix the points, because fucking runners with style can book it. He goes for it anyways. No one should ever wear pink with fuckin advertising on the ass the way she is, no matter how much of a righteous cunt she might be to others. Taking out bitches and assholes is taking out the competition, it’s always more points to smash into someone that looks like they enjoy making others cry. 

Speeding up is a rush. There’s nothing lame ass about it when her limbs flail out and thump against the bare edges of the Tahoe’s hood before sliding off as the momentum of the hit pulls her down under the carriage of the vehicle. It’s possible a SUV is overkill, but that’s part of the fun. No one goes to a monster truck rally to see dinky ass Pintos race after pussy painted Gremlins. They go to see jacked as fuck rebuilt hulks of trucks plaster those Gremlins into the dust. It’s the same idea in effect happening now.

The Tahoe’s raised off the ground enough that he can plow right over Prissy Bitch Dick Cushion without having to worry about one of her ridiculously expensive running shoes tangling up in the power steering line. The quickest way to fuck up his fun is to have to abandon his ride so close to one of his scores because he can’t steer the son of a bitch thing anymore. There’s no bullshit reversing, he can just plow onward. There’s a slight rise of the back tires when they crunch over whatever part of her decided to kiss the warm rubber. Prissy Bitch’s body tumbles and twists behind him when she clears the rear end. It’s a fucking beautiful sight to see and if he could take video of it he would. The flop and sag dance she performs before dropping to the ground motionless is better than any clogging or goddamn ballet. 

It’s a mother fucking waste that he can’t follow through with his tags as often as he’d like. But she’s satisfying enough for now. The moment she’s nothing more than a tiny smudge of shadow in the far corner of the rear view mirror he turns off onto another road and starts looking for a place to park. He needs to find a row of cars so he can jack one, switch the plates of a few others so the whole thing is complicated as fuck for the pigs to figure out. 

He’s in a gas station, picking out a postcard or three for his crew -the amount he buys is directly attached to how much change the previous owner left in the cupholders- when the fuckers call. It’s Johnson’s ringtone, but they’re in each other’s fucking laps all the time. There’s no question that it’ll be on speaker and he’ll talk to them all.

The mannerless asshat doesn’t even say hi, just starts off with “‘Ran into a cool guy today’? Cash, the fuck? You’re talking to strangers?”

“Are they truckers? You know all truckers are methheads, right? Sketching out’s all fun and games until the spiders on his face crawl onto your eyeballs and he goes at you with his never washed hands.”

“Singer, Jesus.”

“Stop talking to strangers Cash. You’re going to get kidnapped, and become someone’s asstoy. Which might be good in a porno, Stevie Gets Stockholmed or something, but this is real life, and your precious mouth and ass cannot handle that.”

“You know how much dick my ass can handle because...” The lady buying Starbursts drags her kid away from him as he trails off, glaring. It’s funny as fuck. Honestly, he should have all his heartfelt convos with his crew in public places. Even if they don’t know literal when it kicks them in the junk, they’re still good for a funny conversation. Ditching them is the shittiest part of cross country travel, thank fuck for cell phones. If it was the dark ages of the eighties, he probably wouldn’t have made it half this far.


End file.
